Story for the Day: Reis and Menor
Reis, the Frewyn God of Luck and Deliverance, is often found where she shouldn't be. She shouldn't be watching over any one at the keep, she shouldn't be loping about the Realm of the Gods, and she certainly should not be anywhere near Menor's home in the mountains.
At the southwestern end of the Menorian Mountains, which separated much of Frewyn from Gallei, on a jutting crag halfway up the range, a slender black cat loped toward a nearby cove, the entrance marked with a Roe Gaumhin on either side. The surrounding dawn redwoods were illuminated by a setting sun, the ocher bark tingeing the atmosphere with an amber haze, the chirruping of nesting larks filtering through the trees. The black cat mounted the stile to the cave and crept toward a depression in the rocks, where stalagmite fountained up from the ground. Clouds suddenly canopied the skies, billowing out in flocculent waves, the air cooled, the sky grew heavy in the hope of snow, and the static silence of a late winter storm prevailed.
At the southwestern end of the Menorian Mountains, which separated much of Frewyn from Gallei, on a jutting crag halfway up the range, a slender black cat loped toward a nearby cove, the entrance marked with a Roe Gaumhin on either side. The surrounding dawn redwoods were illuminated by a setting sun, the ocher bark tingeing the atmosphere with an amber haze, the chirruping of nesting larks filtering through the trees. The black cat mounted the stile to the cave and crept toward a depression in the rocks, where stalagmite fountained up from the ground. Clouds suddenly canopied the skies, billowing out in flocculent waves, the air cooled, the sky grew heavy in the hope of snow, and the static silence of a late winter storm prevailed.
A horn
blared out from the peaks above, caroming down the slopes and through the
trees. Birds quitted their nests in a flurry, commands from the Brigade
commander leading the patrol echoed, their footfalls carrying on the wind. The
ground spoke in tremulous supplication, the atmosphere thrummed in an anxious
thrill, a few flurries navigated the winding boughs.
Menor
exhaled, and the earth moved.
The mountains
groaned, their tectonic pedestal grinding against the Galleisian border, but a
hand reached out and pressed down against the atmosphere, subduing a
consciousness sheathed beneath the stone. The earth slipped into a momentary
sloom, its sounds suppressed by the cries of a child emanating from the mouth
of the cove. The cat followed the cries along the crag, it pattered toward the
mouth of a cavern, and lying in the bowl of a large broken stalagmite, cocooned
in linens and blankets, was an infant, hardly more than a few weeks old. It writhed
and thrashed about, kicking its legs as though it hated being alive, its
strangled cries caroming through the trees, and to silence it and soothe it
into a gentle doze, the cat crept into the bowl, lay beside the child, and nestled
her head against its cheek. A moment passed, the child quieted and seemed
confused, its hand gripped and tugged the cat’s fur, and after a few nuzzles
and gentle pats on the nose, the child tranquilized and began to giggle.
It
turned and gripped the cat’s ear.
“She will
put your ear in her mouth,” Menor’s voice droned.
The cat
purred and ignored the gums gnashing at her ear. “I am accustomed to it,” she
implied. “You forget I have soothed many children.”
The
ground made a subliminal sigh. A fire flickered nearby, a small clay cauldron
hung over it filipendulous from the stone awning above, and from the stone crag
beneath, Menor appeared, rising out of the rock in a petrous wave. Fractal moss
fanned over his head, light snow garnished his shoulders, his immense arms hanging
heavily at his sides. A gravity and sullenness clung to his heels, pulling his
ponderous step along the stone, and he stood at the entrance to the cove, perching
over the fire, watching the milk in the clay cauldron warm.
“The
milk is for the child,” said Menor, eyeing the cat.
The cat
licked the infant’s head. “I never assumed otherwise. I would prefer milk to
the taste of a child, but, as it is not to be shared…”
She
left it there, licked her paws, and continued her work on the infant’s head,
painting its hair with her tongue.
Menor
waved his hand, and the milk stirred itself. “No one is asking you lick the
child.”
“No one
is asking you to warm milk for the child, but you do it,” the cat rejoined,
snurling and rubbing her ears. “The child must be cleaned. No one asked me to
do it, but it must be done all the same.”
The
cat’s whiskers browsed the infant’s face, and the infant cooed in delight.
“Do as
you will,” said Menor, in a mindful hue. Moss arched over his brow. “Your
benevolence will not gain you any milk.”
The cat
gave him a flat look. “I am not always a cat, Menor.”
“No,
but you are not here to bless the child either.”
A
conscious look was exchanged, a silence followed, and the cat relented a little.
“The
child does not need my blessing,” said she, her muzzle curling into a semblance
of a smile. “The child already has yours.”
Menor
paused, and the mist surrounding his shoulders swirled. “Luck is always
important for a child.”
“But
not necessary when a child has gained the favour of Diras’ Third Son.”
The
cat’s tail curled, and Menor, despite his inclination to be sullen and dour,
secreted away a smile.
Comments
Post a Comment